


Unholy Water; Sanguine Addiction

by walkwithursus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (though it's not really important), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale is he/him, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Coming Untouched, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley is he/him, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Menstruation Kink, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Service Kink, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 16:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20410921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: After rescuing Aziraphale from the gallows in Revolutionary Paris, Crowley and Aziraphale spend the night together. Aziraphale puts a little too much effort into manifesting something to fill the void between his legs, but the ensuing sex is anything but awkward.





	Unholy Water; Sanguine Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fic is R18+ ONLY. Explicit menstruation kink. Please read the tags before proceeding.

**Paris, 1793**

A trip to France hadn’t been on Crowley’s list of things to do when he’d first awoke that morning. But as they say, God works in mysterious ways, and who was he to question an opportunity to spend time with one of Her own? 

Following the suave and daring rescue of one vulnerable angel by one devilishly handsome demon, Aziraphale and Crowley had procured tea and crepes from the angel’s favorite restaurant, which had somehow remained miraculously untouched by the revolution’s devastation. Tea turned to dinner, dinner to dessert, dessert to a nightcap, and on it went, with neither being volunteering the first yawn or glance at a timepiece. 

Crowley takes this as a good sign. Maybe it’s because he cheated death, or more specifically discorporation, but Aziraphale is more flushed than usual tonight, more open in his laughter and more generous with his smiles. 

When the nudge comes, the barest knock of a knee against his under the table, Crowley isn’t entirely surprised. Still, that doesn’t make it any less exhilarating when Aziraphale leans in over their cozy table, candlelight flickering warmly over his face, and in a low murmur says, “Come to my room tonight.”

Crowley does so without hesitation. For courtesy’s sake he knocks on the door and waits outside, blowing on his chilly fingers and anxiously tapping a booted foot until Aziraphale ushers him into the rented room. 

There is no preamble. Aziraphale extends his hand and Crowley takes it, lacing their fingers before switching their positions to crowd the angel against the door. Crowley’s lips are a whisper, a question, and Aziraphale’s mouth opens in answer. It’s been so long, _too long,_ Crowley thinks, but it is as perfect as it is familiar. He runs his fingers through the angel’s feathery curls and it feels like he’s home. 

Chaste kisses soon turn hot and feverish as Aziraphale drags them backward, shedding clothing as they go. A single lit candle clatters to the ground as they bump against a table. For a moment the darkness swallows them, and then Aziraphale’s finger twitches and it’s back, a yellow glow that casts flickering shadows across the rough walls. Crowley growls appreciatively and pushes Aziraphale back toward the bed.

It’s a gorgeous bed, because of course it is; four posters, gauze curtains and a soft feather mattress that sinks beneath their bodies like a cloud. Crowley lays him back and Aziraphale breathes a luxuriating sigh, eyes closed and lips parted as though savoring each sensation, the downy comforter and the breeze through the window and Crowley’s hot mouth on his neck. 

The surroundings are immaterial for Crowley. The bed might be soft, but Aziraphale is softer, smooth skin and plump flesh that he can’t help but sink his teeth into, soothing every accidental bite with a healing swipe of his tongue. 

Somehow, Aziraphale has managed to undress more of him than he of the angel. Eager to rectify this, Crowley makes quick work of the other’s trousers, leaving him spread out in nothing but his silky white hose. With agile fingers Crowley works the thin, clinging material down the angel’s thighs, stripping them all the way off until he’s completely bare. He lifts one curved leg and kisses down it, the delicate ankle, the shapely calf, the thin, sensitive skin behind the knee, and Aziraphale allows the indulgence with a fluttering sigh. Unable to resist temptation another moment, Crowley drops a dry kiss on either knee before greedily spreading the angel’s legs. 

Here he pauses. In the candle light, the milk-white skin of Aziraphale’s lower half appears darkened, a sanguine smear between his thighs. Crowley tastes iron in the air and comprehends. 

“Angel?”

Something in the tone of his voice makes Aziraphale glance down. The dreamy expression fades from his face, and his eyes are suddenly blown wide. 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale whispers, squeezing his legs shut and scrambling to sit up against the pillows. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Pink cheeks disappear into cupped hands. “I must have overshot. It’s been so long since we last - since I last had a reason to have one, it seems I got a bit carried away.” 

“It’s okay.”

“No, no, it isn’t.” Aziraphale’s perfect brow is furrowed in despair. “I should have known. I thought something felt strange before, at dinner, but I dismissed it as my own excitement.”

“Really, it’s fine,” Crowley croaks, but Aziraphale is having none of it. 

“I can fix this. I can miracle it away, or - or start over completely, if you’d prefer, give myself the old musket and bandoliers. Variety is the spice of life, they say. Although, I’ll understand if you’d prefer to just leave, call the whole thing off. But really it would be no trouble to - “

“_Don’t change a thing._” 

The order comes out a bit sharper than Crowley had intended. Aziraphale lapses into silence, twisting his pudgy fingers in his lap and looking for all the world like he is about to cry. Quick to quell the angel’s anxieties, Crowley takes one of his fidgeting hands and clasps it in his own, kissing his knuckles and then opening the fist to kiss the palm. 

“This is what you made for me,” says Crowley, his voice low and soft and tinged with the heat of his desire. “This is what you made for me, and I’m _damn well going to enjoy it._”

Aziraphale blinks as though he can’t quite comprehend what he is hearing. Crowley doesn’t blame him. Until now he never knew that this was something that he wanted, that he _needed_ from the other being. But in all their times together, few and far between though they'd undoubtedly been, he's never seen Aziraphale look half as sinful as he does now. It's so messy, so unusual, so very _human_ that he can't help but want to see, to taste and touch and commit everything about this moment to memory. And Crowley has never been one to let an opportunity slip through his fingers. 

“You can’t mean that,” Aziraphale whispers, as Crowley snakes kisses along his soft throat and down to his chest. When he nudges him to lie back against the pillows Aziraphale’s body obeys, and Crowley moans with longing. 

“Aziraphale, listen to me. I want you like this. Exactly like this.” 

Continuing his downward path, Crowley nuzzles the soft, giving flesh of his stomach, mouthing kisses down to where the golden curls just begin. He inhales and releases a shuddery, toe-curling groan. “Angel, please.”

A beat passes before the tension eases from the angel’s body. Once again, the creature has given in to temptation. “You wicked thing,” Aziraphale moans, as Crowley places his hands on either thigh and parts them. 

A soft hiss escapes his lips. Aziraphale is a sight to behold, swollen, pink flesh covered in dark red slick. “God, you’re beautiful,” Crowley whispers, clambering onto his stomach and bowing his head. He starts on the inside of the thighs where two sticky red patches have formed, laying a soft kiss on each before they vanish under his tongue. The skin is left pale and clean. From there he trails inward until the tip of his nose barely skims Aziraphale’s curls. There is a stiff section, reddish-brown in color where the blood has crusted, and he exhales against it, warm, moist puffs of air that leave the angel shivering with anticipation.

Unable to deny himself any longer, he presses a soft, lingering kiss to the outside of Aziraphale's vulva, a gentle brush of lips on damp skin. The warmth radiating from his core is unbelievable, and Crowley can feel him trembling, twitching forward, urging Crowley to use the full of his mouth on him. Withdrawing a scant inch, he lays another kiss against him, beginning a slow and torturous tease that he knows will leave the angel wrecked and wanting. 

Aziraphale’s fists tangle in the sheets, his full thighs splayed flat on either side of Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley’s kisses turn from gentle to probing, parting and opening Aziraphale until the slick warmth of his flesh stains Crowley’s lips to red. And only once Aziraphale is squirming, panting, thrusting himself with purpose into Crowley’s mouth does he use his tongue, slipping against him and then into him with a low, keening moan. 

The taste is intense, a salty, briney combination so unlike the usual tang of Aziraphale’s skin. It floods his mouth, hot and thick and sticky, absurdly human and yet somehow still divine. Crowley pauses the work of his clever tongue to suck and swallow and relishes the sensation of warmth running down the back of his throat. 

He focuses on using his mouth as long as he can, but before long it’s not enough, and Crowley sinks two fingers into him. Up above, Aziraphale gasps in surprise before bearing down, taking the digits as deep into himself as they will go. Crowley allows him a moment to accommodate the intrusion before fucking into him in earnest, short, quick pumps in tandem with the flick of his serpentine tongue. 

Aziraphale’s fingers curl into his hair, a request for control, and the blunt nails that scrape against Crowley’s scalp send tingles down his spine. Obediently, he falls still and allows the angel to take the lead, grinding and sliding himself against Crowley’s tongue until his thighs tremble and shake. Crowley takes it all in stride, allowing the angel to ride his mouth while the firm hand on the back of his head holds him steady. He digs his free hand into the fat of one of Aziraphale’s hips and urges him closer, unable to get enough even as he effectively drowns between his legs. 

The sudden flood of slick in his mouth and the hard clench of the pink cunt around his fingers sends a bolt of arousal to the pit of his stomach, and he knows Aziraphale is close. Having relinquished control of his tongue, he does what he can with his hand to bring him off, crooking and thrusting his fingers inside him until Aziraphale can take no more. 

With a final buck of his hips Aziraphale cries out and Crowley is glad he doesn’t technically need to breathe. With a moan of his own, he dedicates his mouth to servicing the angel through his orgasm, soft tongue strokes and gentle thrusts to bring him along. The rhythmic pulse on his tongue and the sensual roll of Aziraphale’s hips is all the reward he needs, all the satisfaction he could ever want, and the pleasure of working him through it is more than enough to push him over the edge. 

“Oh, fuck, angel. I’m gonna come,” Crowley warns, his voice pitched low like gravel. 

Above, Aziraphale whimpers affirmatively, and Crowley takes that as a sign of permission. With a few short grunts, Crowley thrusts his newly miracled erection against the sheets and comes untouched, his face still buried between Aziraphale’s thighs. His scaly toes curl as his body jerks with it, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through his nerve endings and leaving him utterly dismantled. As the last of the tingling subsides he re-emerges, flushed and gasping, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Crowley pauses to drink in the sight of the angel before him. Aziraphale lies back against the cushions like he’s been spoiled, radiating a heavenly glow with white-blond curls in disarray. The mess between his legs is virtually clean apart from the smear of saliva and the pink prints of Crowley’s tongue. The display would have been obscene if he didn’t look so damn angelic. 

Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Crowley slithers up his body to wind their legs and arms together into a tangle. A contented sigh passes the angel’s lips as he pulls Crowley in closer, tucking the demon’s head beneath his chin. Aziraphale’s breath ruffles his hair as his fingers comb through the damp strands. The contact is soothing, and in time their heartbeats slow to a comfortable match. 

“Good for you?” Crowley murmurs at length, laying a soft kiss below the angel’s ear. 

“Always,” says Aziraphale, and they lay together until the candle gutters and goes out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments greatly appreciated.


End file.
